Slip
by JackOwens1860
Summary: Tim is grieving the loss of his father. Bruce has decided to distance himself from the boy to give him space. As usual, when it comes to emotions, Bruce is wrong. Tim goes looking for his mentor to tell him the facts... Bruce's POV


**Author's Note: Ever have one of those days where you go mental? At present, I'm experiencing exactly that with regards to churning out new stories and additions to existing stories. It's not going to last for long, so enjoy this plethora of stuff while you can. Set after the events depicted in **_**Identity Crisis**_**, Tim is grieving the loss of his father. Bruce, as usual, is not making things easy for anyone. Something needs to break…**

**Slip**

It has been two weeks since Jack Drake's funeral. I still have yet to speak to Tim. The boy is grieving. I find it best not to disturb him. Dick has been to see him on a few occasions, but with surprisingly little effect. Dick has yet to suggest I try and lift the boy's spirits, something for which I am thankful; I would not be able to help. Because my grief defines me, I have learned to live with it. I do not fall apart when I am confronted with tragedy because I embrace it. Sorrow makes me stronger, drives me further and enhances my will. Shedding tears in dark rooms has no benefit, serves no purpose. I have not engaged in such practices since my own parents died and, only then for a few days. This is why I cannot help Tim; I have in effect conquered grief. I am a man of stone.

It is closing on two-forty a.m. I am currently engaged in operations in The Narrows. I am possessed of the notion that a simple crime has a simple solution. That is, if there is only one element in a crime, robbery or assault for example, the perpetrator or the source will be easy to find. I use this model for most minor crimes in Gotham. It works very well, particularly in this high-crime area. There has been a spate of robberies at bookmaker's dens in The Narrows. Comparable levels of money are taken each time. No-one is hurt in the encounter. There are two men, wearing blue and red ski masks. They carry semi-automatic weapons, but have never fired a single shot. They only ever attack in daylight hours, just before closing time. Because of the simplicity of the crime and the wealth of information attainable on the suspects, I do not need to engage the suspects in a physical battle to curtail their venture. All this requires is surveillance.

The man in the red ski mask is a man named Victor Roscoe, a thief and conman who has already served two separate sentences in Blackgate for burglary charges. I know this because I have dealt with him before and am familiar with the finer points of his character. He has a limp present in his left leg, courtesy of military service in Iraq; the manner in which he moves is very specific to his physique. Many witnesses describe seeing such a limp in the suspect. They also say his handling of the firearm looked professional. These are small things. They could match any number of ex-service personnel currently living in Gotham. However, my instincts tell me it is Roscoe. My instincts are never wrong. With that in mind, I track Roscoe to a tenement building on Washington Avenue near to the main shopping front.

The identity of the other man is irrelevant; Roscoe is clearly the leader of the raids. A man like him knows nothing of loyalty, despite his honourable discharge; threaten him with a long stretch and he will turn on his accomplice. It is that simple. I proceed to watch Roscoe for the next two hours, recording all visual and auditory information using the cowl's built-in features. Because of the lack of security in the building, I am able to survey him from within his apartment as opposed to outside. He is a man who enjoys the darkness like me; the only light in the entire room emanates from his television. I stay until the conclusion of _Terminator 2: Judgement Day_, an overrated sequel in my opinion, and then leave unnoticed via the front door.

During my time in his apartment, I was able to successfully search his closet and other drawers without attracting attention. I located a cardboard box layered with old newspapers. Investigating the box further uncovered nearly two hundred thousand dollars hiding beneath the papers. The drawers turned up similar amounts of money, shielded beneath underwear and kitchen utensils. All this was to be expected; The Narrows is famed for crime, not the level of intelligence behind it. Although the evidence I hand-over to Gordon tomorrow will be admissible in court due to invasion of privacy, I doubt Roscoe plans on moving his takings; the newspapers date back to May. It is now December. Jim will have his conviction.

It is almost four a.m. I have concluded business in the city for the time being and am preparing to return to the cave. At present, I am on top of the Ace Chemicals building in Park Row. From this vantage point, I am able to quickly survey the cityscape. Fortunately, all seems quiet. I take control of my grapnel and outstretch it in preparation to fire. I have selected a water tower some two-hundred metres to my immediate north for a point of purchase.

"Bruce?"

My grapnel is away and I have turned one-hundred-and-eighty degrees on my heel, a batarang already in my hand, waiting to be unleashed. My movement was so sudden, my caller jumps in place. It is Tim. I replace my batarang and adopt a less aggressive stance. The boy is in civilian clothes. He looks dishevelled and morose in his general attitude. I am quick to note he is not wearing a coat, despite the harsh weather plaguing Gotham. I imagine he is very cold.

"What are you doing here?" I ask without moving. Tim takes a few steps towards me, his arms hugging his body.

"Dick said I needed some fresh air." The boy replies with an ironic smile that seems forced. He glances around at the surrounding buildings before adding, "I never realized how cold it is this high up before."

"You should go home, Tim." I say already turning back to face the tower.

"Don't go." I hear Tim say in a more desperate tone of voice. Judging by how clearly I just heard him speak, the boy has drawn closer yet again. When I look over my shoulder, I find him only a few feet from where I'm standing. "Please don't go." Tim appears on the verge of tears. I am very uncomfortable with the current situation. Regardless, I turn back to face him.

"Tim, I don't think this is the appropriate venue for this kind of conversation."

"I haven't seen or heard from you in two weeks. This is the only place I know you'll be at four in the morning. You're heading home now, right?" For some reason, I want to lie to the boy. I want to tell him I am currently working a case and am in the midst of following a lead. I want to tell him I have heard a 911 call over the police scanner and am going to lend a hand. I want to tell him anything, but the truth. Because I am aware of what his response to the truth will be. I do not feel capable of dealing with him at this present time. But, just looking into his eyes and seeing so much pain compels me to tell him the truth.

"Yes. You want to come with me, don't you?"

"You can see that huh?"

"Tim..."

"I just don't want to be at home...by myself anymore."

I promised his father that I would look after him. My performance so far has been less than stellar. I believe, in spite of my discomfort and reservations, I should begin to honour that arrangement. For Jack's sake, I will. I extend my arm out to my side. Tim understands I mean to carry him off the roof using the grapnel. He wanders over before pressing himself firmly against my side. His arms coil round my waist and take hold with a tight grip. My outstretched arm in turn bends around the boy's shoulder, locking him in position. We stand for a few moments in this intimate position, Tim perfectly safe from the world, partly shielded from view by my cape. Then I fire the grapnel.

Swinging from building to building whilst holding a one-hundred and-sixty-pound teenager is not as taxing on my right shoulder as you might expect. Tim is not particularly heavy and my shoulder is used to much greater stresses being forced upon it. My fatigue also fails to make the task more difficult. Throughout the entire journey to the car, there is not a single sharp intake of breath from Tim. The boy is calm and unafraid. He trusts me a great deal more than either Dick or Jason did. When we land in the usual alleyway, Tim is reluctant to let go of me. He remains clung to my side for almost a minute before detaching himself. Neither of us says anything about it when getting in the car. The boy is quiet throughout the whole ride back. I too remain silent. I cannot think of anything to say to him. But, I suppose the simple act of being with him is enough for Tim at the moment. Perhaps he has missed my company. Perhaps not. His expression is difficult to read so I stop even looking at him less than five minutes into the journey. It is best not to force issues or conversations; if Tim wishes to speak, he will do so when he wants to. We arrive back in the cave some twenty minutes later.

"Bruce, I..."

"You should go to bed, Tim. We can talk in the morning when you've slept." I say whilst entering the armoury. The boy confronts me moments later.

"I want to talk now. Not later, now." He sounds angry with my attitude. I remove my cowl and then my cape. I gesture for him to speak.

"Please, go right ahead." I say replacing the cowl besides its brethren.

"Where the hell have you been? Why haven't you called me?"

"I assumed after your father's funeral you would need some space to mourn."

"You thought I needed two weeks without any contact whatsoever from you? If Dick hadn't told me, I could've thought you were dead." I have now shed my upper body layers and am putting on my dressing gown. Tim is staring at me shaking his head in disgust. "I thought you cared about me." I finish tying the gown's belt and stare at him without blinking.

"I don't want to hurt you anymore, Tim. Your father's death is partly my fault. Most of your tragedies share some sort of link to me. It just seemed best to distance myself from you for a while." Tim adopts a bewildered expression. He looks at me like I have just spoken an incomprehensible foreign language, something that does not translate to English.

"Are you insane? None of what happened was your fault. I needed you, Bruce. I needed you and you avoided me. You're the only one left now. I need you. You promised my dad you'd look after me. You promised him you'd..." Tim is unable to finish that sentence. His eyes screw shut and he grits his teeth; he is trying to suppress the anguish he is currently feeling. I watch in silence as his hands bunch into fists and he hunches forward. For a brief time, I am convinced the boy will begin to cry uncontrollably. But then his eyelids relax and he stops gritting his teeth. He takes a deep breath through his nose whilst standing back up before exhaling slowly. His eyes open at the same time his hands go limp. Tim has remarkable control when it suits him. His eyes meet mine before looking away.

"I'm sorry you had to see that. I...didn't mean to...get all upset like that." He tells me. His training seems to have the greatest effect on the boy physically and mentally when out in the field; his emotional training, that is his ability to suppress feelings counterproductive to work, only has a full effect in my company. With me, Tim is able to become like stone inside and out.

"It's okay to grieve, Tim."

"I don't see you do it."

"What I do is not healthy."

"And yet, you carry on."

"Let's not argue. My behaviour so far has been detrimental to your recovery. From this moment on, I will try harder to help you. I promise." I have ended the conversation with my admission of fault. Tim nods at me in something approaching approval. Then he latches onto my waist. My body stiffens at the unexpected contact, my hands shooting up in a passive gesture of their own accord.

"Promise you won't leave me alone. Just promise me that Bruce." My hands drop back down.

"Tim, I can't promise…" The boy cuts me off by squeezing my waist harder.

"Just say it. Even if it's a lie, just say it. I need to hear you say it." I have never found myself in such a position, not with Dick and certainly not with Jason. I am unsure how to act. I understand Tim is in a fragile state at present, but my parenting abilities do not extend to such eventualities. The boy sounds desperate though. Perhaps I was incorrect to distance myself; he seems almost starved of my attentions. I place a hand on Tim's back, rubbing it gently.

"I promise I will never leave you alone, Tim."

"And you promise my dad too right?"

"Yes."

"You've got me, right?" He asks echoing what I told him in his father's apartment as Jack lay dead on the floor before us. I close my arms around him, stroking his hair.

"I've got you."


End file.
